


Witness and Wait

by snarla



Series: Fagin Productions, LLC [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Porn, Masturbation, Other, but you know, for a camera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26271052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarla/pseuds/snarla
Summary: Henry Foster Collins’ outdoor wanks do double or triple the numbers of his indoor ones.
Relationships: Henry Collins/Solomon Tozer
Series: Fagin Productions, LLC [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908679
Comments: 18
Kudos: 28





	Witness and Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Song of Myself of course.

Sol has a hangover. 

Already pushing 33° and the two hour commute plus ferry to Gulf Islands makes him queasy even stone sober. Still, Blanky’s friend at Parks Canada could only manage to get them one uninterrupted day to film and the numbers on Collins’ outdoor wanks always double or triple his indoors. Sol gives his head a shake and floors it.

Tommy Hartnell is stomping around the ferns and trees of the secluded cove at the north of Saturna island, yelling happily about light and B-roll when Sol pulls up and slams the mud-spattered door of the car he’s lived and fucked in. 

“Boss,” says Tommy, and hands Sol an iced capp, sweaty and nearly slipping through his fingers, “you might want to…”

Tommy jerks his dandelion head toward the AirStream nestled among the rocks at the end of the shoot.

“Is it a bad one?” Sol asks, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head.

Tommy waggles his hand in the air. _Sorta. Couci couça._

Sol still announces himself before he steps inside the trailer, rapping his knuckles on the blister hot door.

“Foster?” he says, “It’s me. I’m coming in, okay?”

No answer. Sol creaks open the door just enough to slide in sideways.

Foster is hunched over the built-in coffee table, shock of dark curly hair blocking his face, already undressed to his Fagin Productions shorts. He doesn’t seem shaky, doesn’t seem scared. More... intent.

“Hey, Sol,” he says, voice low, “come look. Slowly.”

Sol pulls at his coffee and tries to gingerly make his way over, but a tiny dark flash disappears under the pleather bench and Foster groans.

“Fuckin’ hell, you elephant!” Foster says, finally turning his face up with a rueful grin. He has a beetle pinched in between forefinger and thumb, its little legs waving, impotent. “I almost had him.”

“Had who?” Sol asks, and sits beside him, one respectful cushion down.

“Western skink? Maybe?” says Foster, and leans back down to let go of the beetle, give it a gentle nudge under the bench.

“Didn’t know we had lizards up here,” Sol says.

“Don’t think we’re supposed to, actually,” says Foster, and wrinkles his nose. “Probably a bad sign, climate change and all.”

Familiar territory, Sol can work with that.

But instead of launching into a speech, Foster stretches his thick arms above his head and gives a rattling sigh.

“Am I on?” he says, fixing dark well eyes on Sol’s face. 

“Not yet,” Sol says, “you’ve got a ways before Tommy’s happy with the wind block.”

Foster hums, shifting a bit on the seat.

Five years on and it still lands like a brick in Sol’s stomach every time he looks at Henry Foster Collins. He’s like someone took your generic porn bear and squared him, saturated him so the creams and gold-browns of his skin and hair sang louder, stood taller. Not half hard and already the dusky pink of the tip of his cock peeking out of his shorts. Sol bites the inside of his mouth and locks down a laugh. What a fuckin’ find.

“Did you eat today, Foster? Take your meds?”

“Yes, dad,” Foster says quietly. Not a joke. Not really.

“Good man,” says Sol, cringes a little. The hail-fellow-well-met hump he always has to clamber over to get Foster comfortable and talking has become higher of late. Entirely Sol’s own fault.

He opens his mouth to try again, but Foster interrupts him.

“Late night?”

He’s not teasing, not exactly, but there’s some kind of spark in the wells of his eyes. Sol hasn’t blushed in years, but he knows when the occasion calls for it.

“Not how you think,” he says, “Billy had me up half the night with the tax forms and then Legal needed me to look over this statement for the multi-company repudiation of Pornhub, and then I deserved the whiskey to wash that whole mess out of my brain.”

“Fuckers,” says Foster, dead serious. Sol nods. There’s not a key grip working for Fagin who wouldn’t give a body part to see that scum-sucking violating website crash and burn. Sol would show up for the Senate hearing in person if it came to it, just to spit. 

“How’s your man, then?” Sol says, and Foster smiles, small and secret.

“He’s not my man, Sol, you know that,” he says, and adjusts the elastic of his shorts, giving himself room. The tensing of his thighs seems to counter that, but Sol brushes it aside. Best not to dwell. Five years and infinite fuck-ups, plus a few dozen truly terrible choices in timing...well. Foster deserves a solid boyfriend. A man with a real job outside the industry. Sol’s happy for him. Truly.

“You know,” Sol begins, and then stalls as Foster’s hands begin running up and down his strong thighs, his own brand of rhythmic preparation. 

“Foster at any point if you feel...if you want to stop…”

Foster tilts his head at him, hands still moving. His cock is thickening, visibly now filling his shorts. One of every five comments on his videos ask for more of it, of black cotton that barely contains him, of the promise concealed. 

Sol’s head hurts.

“I like to work,” Foster says. “You know me—”

“Trustworthy as the sidewalk.”

They say it together and Foster’s face creases up into his one-of-a-kind snarl/smile. 

Sol sucks down more coffee, more diluted by the second, just to keep his mouth occupied.

“But, uh,” Foster says, chewing on his lip.

D’you...do you think I could have you in line of sight for this one?”

Sol digs his fingernails hard into his palm.

“Anything you need, Foster,” he says.

Tommy Hartnell’s a dirty saint, a prince among ADs, definitely in need of a raise, because he knocks at the trailer door just then and says, “Foster on set, please.”

Sol follows him out.

He mocked up the storyboards himself, so he knew Foster would be standing with his back flush against a red cedar, braced among the ferns, but as Sol puts his headphones on and positions himself in Foster’s line of sight, as Tommy starts rolling…

Maybe it’s the unseasonable heat or the particular green gold of the islands near sunset that’s making it hard for Sol to breathe.

Foster has his head bowed and a pretty flush is spreading up his stout chest. He’s looking at Sol - just past the camera - through a thick fringe of eyelashes and touching himself gently. He’s slowly pushing his shorts down to his knees and bringing himself hard, proud.

The comments love to call him shy. Shy Daddy Surprised by Massive Cumshot, blared one particularly egregious repost last month. Cornelius had form C&D letters to take care of that sort of thing, but Sol is privately bewildered by what the fans project onto Foster. 

Because when Foster has one hand tracing over his left nipple, holding his own beating heart, when Foster is biting a lip and staring Sol down across a sea of crew members, working himself, he’s the farthest thing from shy. 

The tendons of his arm bulge as he gathers his foreskin into a sweet furl, as he spreads his thighs and shakes, as he twists his fist, deft on the upstroke. 

Foster is true, and Sol can’t stop himself from choking out “That’s it. Let yourself have it.”

Foster pins wild eyes on him, and shoots.

He collapses against the cedar trunk, gasping, and Tommy calls for cut.

“We editing sound on that?” Tommy asks, and Sol lets his heart race for exactly two seconds before grunting, “Nah.”


End file.
